


Mr. Gallagher

by gonan



Series: gallavich oneshots [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drunkenness, Husbands, Ian has a husband and he won’t let anyone forget about it, M/M, Parenthood, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 08:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23968594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonan/pseuds/gonan
Summary: Ian gets brought in for public drunkeness just a block from The Alibi. When asked for the number of someone they can contact to come pick him up, he tells the policemen to call Mr. Gallagher.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: gallavich oneshots [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629238
Comments: 11
Kudos: 252





	Mr. Gallagher

The man was barely coherent when they picked him up, huddled in between two buildings to shield himself from the frigid winter air. Two officers hovered over him with flashlights trained just shy of his eyes, speaking into their radios at a volume that eluded him in his fugue state. He squinted up at them with unfocused eyes and a bobbing head. The female officer stepped forward, leaning down to stoop closer to his level.

“Sir, have you been drinking tonight?”

The answer was obvious, indicated by the harsh smell of whiskey and coke radiating from the man. He merely shrugged, though, hands coming up to accentuate his point before a wave of nausea bowled him over in a dry heave. The woman moved back, looking at her partner for guidance. Another unhelpful shrug.

“Okay, sir, we may need to take you into the station until you sober up,” She kneeled in the pile of snow next to the loopy giant, wincing at the squelch of wetness soaking into her uniform pants.

“Alley,” he groaned, clutching at his stomach in a way that had her concerned for the integrity of the squad car should she follow through with her warning. 

The male officer leaned against the brick wall, seemingly used to such displays. “Yes, sir, this is an alleyway. Are you alright? Have you lost anything around here?”

“Alley,” he said again. The woman stood up and retrieved a small notebook from her pants pocket.

“Sir, what is your name?”

“Ian. Gallagher,” he said, head lolling to the side.

She let out a long sigh, shuffling back to the car and running the name through their local database. He was probably harmless — most of these guys were — but it was better to be safe than sorry. And sure enough, when the guy pinged in the system, her eyes widened at what she found. Not too uncommon for any given person on the south side to have a record, but a low whistle escaped her lips anyhow to see that they had something of a local celebrity on their hands.

“Hey, I think you might wanna come see this,” she nodded to her partner, making room when he came up beside her to check the screen.

“Jesus,” the man said, shaking his head at the drunkard now slumped halfway to the ground in his stupor. “Or should I say  _ Gay _ Jesus, huh? Alright, let's bring him in,” he slapped the hood of the vehicle, swinging into the driver’s seat without so much as an offer to help lug the six foot felon into the back seat. 

The woman made her way over and crouched back down beside the drunken man, already beginning to situate his arm over her shoulders to maneuver him into the car.

“Ian. Is there anyone we can call that will be able to come pick you up?” She asked, struggling to keep her feet planted on the slick ground.

A dopey smile split across the man’s face. He hummed happily, saying, “Call Mr. Gallagher,” with a soft edge to the slurred words. It seemed he wasn’t going to be offering anything in the way of support  _ or _ information, so the officer dragging him along grit her teeth and secured her arm firmly around his heaving waist. 

“Is that your father? Your brother?” The other officer asked from the open passenger side window he’d rolled down to listen from. The man didn’t answer any of his questions, though, using all the concentration he could muster to relay the number and slumping against the side of the car as the woman wrestled to get the door open.

“Thanks for all the help,” she huffed once she’d stuffed him in back with a paper bag, turning to her partner as she rolled the window back up. 

*

The person on the other end of the phone sounded as if he’d just woken up, groggy and irate as he answered with a short, “You know what fucking time it is?”

The officer balked, pausing to stare at the corded station phone in her hand. “Sir, this is the Chicago PD. We have a man by the name of Ian Gallagher down here at the station on Washington Ave. He told us to call you. Are you Mr. Gallagher?”

“Shit,” the man said. “ _ shit _ ,” there was clattering on the other end of the line, a door opening and closing, the rustle of a pen jar. “Yeah, that’s me. ‘S he alright? He didn’t do nothin’, did he?”

She decided not to ask what the man suspected his relative had done, wanting to avoid further conflict and paperwork on what would otherwise turn out to be a quiet shift. “No sir, but we found him heavily intoxicated on a public sidewalk. He was very cooperative — that is, when we could get him to speak.”

“Jesus. It’s that bad?” The question was meant to be rhetorical, but the officer hummed her confirmation regardless. “Okay. Fuck, I’m on my way. I can just come and get him out, yeah?”

“Yessir. We see no reason to keep him if he’s got somewhere more comfortable to spend the night,” and to be completely honest, she would probably kiss the man if he saved her from the off-key singing echoing from the stone walls within the next fifteen minutes. 

“Great. Bye,” he said, and hung up without any further fuss. 

*

A man pushed through the double doors of the station ten minutes later, hair awry and plaid overshirt only half-buttoned over his wife beater. He looked like just about every man in his thirties on the south side, with the tattoos and the attitude to match. 

“Where is he?” He said in lieu of a greeting, anxious fingers coming up to tap on the desk between him and the officer in an offbeat rhythm. 

Although fairly certain this was the same man she’d just been on the phone with, she asked to be sure. “Who are you referring to?”

The speed of his drumming fingers picked up. “Ian Gallagher. Where is he?”

“He’s back in one of the holding cells at the moment — are you the Mr. Gallagher that I just spoke with on the phone?”

“Yeah.”

The woman stopped to give him a once-over, taking in his fine black stubble and dark-rimmed eyes. The man was much shorter — and decidedly more Eastern European — than the ginger beanstalk they’d picked up near The Alibi. She eyed him warily, slipping behind the desktop monitor to put something solid between them. “Okay then. Mr. Gallagher, can I have your full legal name and identification please?”

“Mikhailo Aleksander Gallagher,” he said, wrestling with his back jeans pocket for his wallet. To her surprise, when he pulled out his ID, it matched the name he’d given her and showed no signs of forgery, the same vaguely angry scowl staring back at her from his license photo as was peering across the counter at her. She wasn’t surprised, however, to see that this man also had a criminal record when she looked him up, nor that he’d used his intel on a Mexican drug cartel as leverage to make parole.

“And...you’re his brother?” She asked cautiously, unsure how to relay her doubt without seeming like she was accusing him of anything.

The man‘s eyebrows twisted almost comically together, an offended expression temporarily taking over his agitation. “Fuck no. I’m his husband,” he said, rolling his shoulders back until a loud pop sounded from each one. 

She blinked, double and triple checking in her own head that she’d heard him right. She supposed she should’ve seen it coming with the whole Gay Jesus thing, but while the redhead had a high voice and styled hair, this man looked like he’d beat you up if you so much as asked him to hold a roll of fabric for you while you were at the craft store. Hell, he looked like he’d beat you up if you even invited him to a craft store, period.

The officer cleared her throat, more to gather herself than to draw the man’s attention. “Well, Mr. Gallagher, we ran a background check on your...husband as a precaution, and it turned out that he has a prior felony conviction. Not to mention his medical history. We just thought that it would be best to bring him in — he can’t exactly take care of himself in this state.”

“Yeah. Fuck, Ian. I’m gonna wring that bastard’s neck. The call nearly woke up the kid,” he ran a tired hand through his already mussed hair, leaning an elbow on the edge of the counter.

Curiosity getting the best of her, the woman bit her lip and angled towards him. “You two have a child?”

“Got a girl, yeah. Name’s Alexis,” he said, the telltale far-off look of fondness associated with a proud parent sparking in his eyes when he mentioned her. 

The woman’s lips twitched despite herself. Ever since her sister and brother-in-law had decided to have a baby last month, she’d been perhaps overly invested in the idea of children and parenthood. It hadn’t extended to herself yet, thank god, but she always kept an eye out for any opportunity she could find to coo at the little kids she came across with their round cheeks and wispy hairs and dress-up costumes. “Do you have a picture?”

The man’s eyebrows alone were enough to convey his confusion. He fumbled with his phone for a moment, turning it around to show her a picture of a dark haired toddler sleeping on a couch with a blanket tucked around her chubby body. The man they had in back was curled up next to her, body angled protectively toward the little girl with one hand resting in the space between them. It took her a moment to realize he’d set the photo as his lock screen, but as soon as she did he was already withdrawing the phone and stuffing it back in his pocket. 

“She’s very cute,” the officer smiled. “She looks like you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the one we decided would knock up the surrogate. He didn’t want his genes to —” The man coughed, seemingly unwilling to continue with that train of thought. “Anyway. The little fucker’s got my exact pissy face. It’s kinda freaky trying to scold her and getting that in return. Makes that stupid ginger fuck bust a lung every time.”

“Right,” she chuckled lightly, clicking back to the document she had to finish filling out for their records about tonight. “Well, if there’s no further issue, I believe we can release your husband and call it a night.”

“Yeah?” The man started circling around the desk towards the divider that separated him from where the cells were. She moved out from behind the desk with her keys and flipped it open for him, leading the way to where the other Gallagher had just picked up his singing again.

“Ian.”

His head whipped up, a blinding grin taking over at the sight of his savior. “Mick!” He said, hands finding the bars and rattling at them whilst the officer tried to free him. She grumbled slightly at the hindrance, but once he was out Ian launched himself at the dark-haired man with such passion that they both nearly toppled over — and he was officially, blessedly, not her problem. 

“Told you not to overdo it, tough guy,” Mr. Gallagher slapped his husband on the back once he’d gotten an arm around him, rubbing the hand up and down comfortingly along his no doubt freezing ribs. “Oh. And. Um, thanks,” he said to the officer, giving her a quick wave before he started hobbling past the divider with 170 pounds of deadweight hanging off of him.

“No problem,” she replied. “You guys have a good night.”

“Allie,” Ian said again pitifully. 

“She’s in bed, slick. Come on,” his husband guided him around the counter, a playful hip check sending the taller man staggering into the side of it. “Carl’s at home but god knows what he’ll do if she wakes up. Probably feed her ketchup packets or some shit to try and calm her down.”

“Thank god Kelly’s on the pill,” Ian said, holding his bruised side against the ache and the humor starting to rack his ribs.

The other man rolled his eyes, but it seemed he found the comment just as funny, and their laughter followed them out the door as it shut tightly against the blustery night.

**Author's Note:**

> lmk if i should come back to this universe, i think it’d be super fun to write a few cute short stories of gallavich being dads


End file.
